


Pattern

by fourcardflush



Series: Legitimacy [1]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Drinking, M/M, Slow Burn, Unresolved Sexual Tension, ed needs to be more upfront oh my god, just two idiots being babies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-20
Updated: 2015-11-20
Packaged: 2018-05-02 11:45:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5247089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fourcardflush/pseuds/fourcardflush
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once could be called a happenstance. Twice would be a coincidence. But three times?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pattern

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nilahxapiel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nilahxapiel/gifts).



Oswald Copplepot liked to think of himself as an observant man.

 

It was one of his defining features, actually. Well. Not so much anymore, what with the limp and the more purposeful feathery hair and the high-class suits. But under all the obvious “that”, he was essentially two things: malicious, and observant.

 

Edward Nygma was also observant. But it was to a more painful degree, like a machine which can't help but swallow information as sustenance. A ticket taker which spits ripped pieces of data back out. Should it really surprise Oswald that much, that Nygma knew that his favorite breakfast was eggs and bratwurst, or that he claimed to to prefer classical music but secretly liked alternative? No, probably not.

 

(but is kind of freaked him out a little anyway)

 

Edward Nygma was _not_ malicious. This had surprised Penguin, when he noticed, because the man certainly had a new-found enthusiasm for killing people. But it was more the matter of making people dead in the first place than the thrill of killing.

 

(blood spurting onto his teeth, the rattle of the last pained moan, the look in their eyes of disbelief, how could this happen? how could this have happened to _me_ yeah it happened to _you_ , you stupid self deluded little cocksucker)

 

Oswald was an observant man. It was what had built his little empire. To pry out a person's weakness from within their heart, to notice their likes, dislikes, fears. What made them _tick._ So it annoyed him greatly, that he couldn't read into the smiley bespectacled man. Every time he expected something, this man would do the opposite. And while he made his motives clear as day (by _announcing_ them), Oswald suspected that he may be doing it for other reasons altogether. This unsure, bumbling amateur killer. This confident genius who sometimes flashed him the teeth of a wolf.

 

\----

There were three incidences.

 

\---

 

The first could be called a happenstance.

 

Penguin woke one night to fingers at his throat. He was not startled, because there was no violence in it. No motion to squeeze until his artery popped. The touch was almost too soft to be clinical. Gentle enough to hold a baby bird.

 

He tried to blink the blur from his eyes. “...Wha…?”

 

“Shh, quiet,” whispered a low voice. “Just checking your pulse.”

 

In his still half-conscious state, this seemed acceptable enough. He didn't correct the voice, at the time, that his fingers were too high up at the juncture of neck and jaw.

 

No, he thought as he turned his head into his pillow and dozed back off. He'd never feel a proper pulse that way.

 

He didn't ask Nygma why he would have to lie next to him to check, either.

 

The second could possibly be coincidence.

 

They were both playing around in a man's stomach cavity. Who the man was didn't matter. He was just a gift that Nygma had dropped for him, having noticed that Penguin was having an off day. But what fun they had with their new hobo friend! New, ingenious games were invented that day:

 

Guess What You Did To Deserve This

Answer in Five Seconds to Keep This Finger!

Eye Spy (With Your Little Eye)

Tibia Trivia!

 

But their playmate soon tired and checked out. The only thing left to do was, to use a crude term, fuck around.

 

“Did you know,” Nygma said, poking at the man's swollen liver, “that the liver is capable of regeneration?”

 

Oswald's lips thinned. “Fascinating.”

 

“Yes, very! It's also the organ that produces blood.”

 

Oswald stopped playing with the small intestines and looked up. “What?”

 

“Isn't that neat?”

 

“Wh- no. The marrow makes blood.”

 

“Incorrect. The marrow produces blood _cells_. The liver produces the serum!”

 

Nygma continued to chatter away. Oswald busied his hands with what he had been doing before. He has grown used to the constant background noise of useless facts- it was basically like white noise to him at this point.

 

After a while, his fingers brushed up against something too solid to be a soft organ. So slick that Oswald couldn't even tell at first. His fingers had somehow become entangled with Nygma's within the dark recesses of the body.When he looked up Nygma's eyes were on him and they were black, black, black as a snake's. It took a moment for Oswald to realize that the room had become still. He was silent. Nygma was silent. The man lying beneath them was silent.

 

The third time indicated a pattern.

 

He really shouldn't have but he was bored and Nygma was bored and there was no current situation to take proper advantage of with Oswald still wounded. The only logical option was for the both of them to get mind numbingly drunk.

 

Nygma only had the cheap stuff- typical, for a guy who ate Chinese takeout for breakfast- but the end result was what mattered. Oswald tried not to curl his lip whenever he took a drink. He had grown up poor, it was true, but Fish had instilled in him a love for 12-year single malt and Montoya Cabernet.

 

How the mighty have fallen, he thought, staring into his half-full glass of sprite and 99 Bananas. The room had surprisingly begun to swim after only one glass.

 

Ed literally- _literally_ \- snapped his fingers in front of Oswald's face to get his attention. His head jerked up and he immediately regretted that action as his head spun violently.

 

“What is it?” he asked, definitely not slurring. At all.

 

Nygma beamed at him, his smile more elastically large than usual. “Are you having fun, Mr. Penguin?”

 

“Were we supposed to be?” Oswald sneered.

 

(he never claimed to be a friendly drunk)

 

Nygma's head tilted to the side. “Hmm...”

 

He swayed on the spot and then spun on his heal toward the piano. Once seated (with overly pompous flourish) a choppy, energetic tune began to play. His fingers must be a blur to go that fast, he thought as he leaned his head back on the couch. He hadn't realized that he'd spoken aloud until the song stopped abruptly.

 

“You like it? That's _Prokofiev Etude Opus 2 No. 1.”_

 

“...are you even drunk?”

 

Nygma gave the question serious contemplation. He took his glasses off and chewed on the earpiece.

 

“Less than you, certainly.”

 

“Asshole,” Penguin muttered.

 

“I don't see how having a tolerance higher than that of a child's makes me an asshole, my feathered friend!”

 

Penguin pointed an unsteady, accusatory finger at the other man. “It's….no!”

 

“No?”

 

“Delegitimate!”

 

“…I believe you mean 'illegitimate,' although in context that still doesn't make much sense-”

 

Penguin rose suddenly and made his way back to the kitchen to get the bottle. A praiseworthy task. He didn't trip despite the limp _and_ the fact that the room had begun tilting 45 degrees since he had finished his second glass. He thrust it up into Nygma's face. This guy was really tall. Was he always that tall? Damn.

 

“Let's see how good at piano you really are!”

 

Rather than looking frightened, Nygma smirked. Unacceptable.

 

“Take another shot, Nygma.”

 

As if to spite him, the taller man took two. He then played a rousing rendition of Bela Bartok's _Barbaro._ With his glasses still off.

 

(ooh, wanna play, tough guy?)

 

Ever the good sport, Oswald clapped for him. The clap may have been slow enough to be interpreted as sarcastic. He could not, however, be responsible for other people's misinterpretations.

 

Inspired by his heartfelt appreciation, Nygma began playing another Prokofiev piece. But halfway through the extra drinks kicked in and his fingers stumbled over one another like newfound lovers exiting a bar.

 

“Wow. Impressive.”

 

Nygma turned around on the bench to fully face Oswald. He still had his usual grin on, but it seemed a little more...hungry. His hair fell over one eye.

 

“Your turn, then,” he practically growled.

 

It was Oswald's turn to smile brightly. “Me? I can't play, m'afriad.”

 

Nygma rose from his perch. “Surely you could do _something_.”

 

Something, something. Did he have any show-able talents? Did 'killing unsuspecting people on the fly' count as a talent?

 

“Oh! I know.” He took out his knife. He had taken to carrying a knife around again because, well... _because._ “Gimme an apple.”

 

Nygma snorted but went to fetch him one, stalking out of the room not unlike a cat. He returned and made to throw it, seemed to think better of it, and handed it to him.

 

“ _I_ will now carve this apple...into a rose!”

 

“What, no dancing?”

 

“Fuck off.”

 

And he actually managed, with careful tenacity, to do it without cutting his fingers once. He presented it to Nygma with flourish.

 

“See? The _true_ talent. Is to be able. When fucked up.”

 

Nygma held eye contact while taking a slow bite out of the apple. His smile, rather than the usual forced one after a barb, was slow and curling. Oswald felt a small jolt in his abdomen. He made to turn back toward the couch but was stopped by the feeling of fingers in his hair. Dizzy. His head was really spinning. Nygma continued to pet him, carefully running through his hair and along his scalp. It was easy to reach, with him being so tall. Oswald rather felt like a pet.

 

What was this feeling? He felt like something was happening but his mind was too slippery to grasp it. He was standing on a cliff's edge. He was standing on the dock's edge, yes, feeling like that, like maybe he'd die or maybe he'd scream or maybe he'd be saved…

 

The hand went hesitantly lower to the side of his face. Nygma's thumb brushed his cheekbone. This was the trigger. Oswald's heart felt like it would burst, pounding against his ribcage. He should tear the offending hand away-no. He couldn't move anyway. He couldn't speak if he wanted to. He couldn't do anything but stare ahead into the eyes of something which would surely swallow him whole.

 

Nygma studied his face with a slightly furrowed brow. His hand withdrew.

 

“Well, I think that's enough fun for one night,” he said, chipper voice returned.

 

Oswald stared at him, slack jawed. “Wait- but-”

 

“Feel free to use the bedroom again, really,” Nygma was practically pushing him out of the room. “I insist. You are not fully healed.”

 

“You-”

 

“Goodnight, Mr. Penguin,” he said with a smile, closing the door.

 

\- - -

 

Oswald Copplepot liked to think of himself as an observant man. He liked to pry people open to see what made them tick. And this. This was a part of Edward Nygma that had some _real_ potential to work towards his advantage.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The moral is that nothing good comes from drinking 99 Bananas. 
> 
> Also I know this can potentially be the start of a series on the other hand it would just be them being a domestic couple while skirting the issue that they are a) a couple and b) desperately want to bang because I am terrible at writing smut. 
> 
> Comments are appreciated!


End file.
